Tiny Little Fractures
by hauntedd
Summary: Elle reflects on Bennet’s words to her and her father’s role in her life


Title: Tiny Little Fractures  
Rating: K+  
Disclaimer: Not mine. Some dialogue comes from ep. 2.10  
Characters: Elle; Bob  
Spoilers: Through 2.10  
Description: Elle reflects on Bennet's words to her and her father's role in her life

* * *

She feels out of place in her own body. At first she thought it was the bullet ripping her in two, the dark crimson on tanned skin, nerves firing synapse after synapse, an overarching message of pain as the sun set on the beach. 

But the bullet is gone and the self doubt remains, her skin tighter than before as the silence reaches oppressive levels. Elle notices things she hadn't before, and she struggles to remember the rainbows and unicorns that Bennet talked about and how her father seems anything but.

She can't remember questioning anything she'd gone through. Daddy said she was special and she had to have a special life, so she had. Six rounds, five pills, four walls, three meals, two tutors, one parent. It made sense to her, then, but now she was wondering if he'd just altered her memories, made her fit the reality he'd forced her into.

He opens the car door and shuts it again, she rubs her free hand against her pant leg, comforted by the kinetic energy that warms her cold palm. It's a nervous habit she picked up, but she can't remember how -- another stray thought that brings the Haitian back to the forefront of her mind.

Fucking Bennet, and the little cheerleader too.

"The next 24 hours are critical. I want you to keep an eye on Claire," her father states, it's not a desire, it's a command, and she knows better than to fight him, but she does it anyway. At least she gets a response this way, instead of

"It'd be easier without this thing on my arm. It itches like a mother," her voice trails off at the end as he shoots her a pointed look through the thick rims of his glasses and Elle fights the feeling of being eight years old again.

"And I thought my little girl was tough," he volleys and she feels like she's heard all of this before, but can't remember when. It's on the periphery, something she can't quite reach, but the echos of violent, searing pain and faint memories of forcing her tears behind a stubborn pout reverberate in the blank spaces her childhood should fill.

"I am, Dad, but I was shot and my body doesn't heal itself," she snaps, masking her hurt with animosity and she's starting to wonder who she's directing it toward. Nothing is the same anymore and it's getting harder to breathe as he stares at her with the same blank expression she'd once thought was kindness.

"I'm sorry you're in pain, but none of this would have happened if you hadn't lowered your guard," he returns and she feels the oxygen leave her lungs as they deflate, the shock paints her face in angry pinks and reds. How dare he? She didn't really know Bennet, but she was beginning to understand love and this wasn't it.

Elle'd doubted Bennet when he'd said that she'd be surprised what a man would do for his daughter. But seeing Bennet die for Claire, red on white, shattering, breaking and ripping in two she knew he was right. A man would do anything for his daughter, but Elle wasn't his.

But if she wasn't his daughter, than who was she, anyway?

"How was I supposed to know that Bennet teamed up with West the flying boy?" She questions, feeling the sparks rise within her, like a desperate lover begging for release. It would be so easy to lash out now. Angry, destructive and violent shades of blue on beige, making him feel the hurt he was causing her.

Instead, she sits there, itching her wound, angry that he hadn't bothered to use Claire's blood to take away the pain. If it was anything like Adam's, she'd have her right arm back and maybe she wouldn't be thinking about things that she couldn't change.

"Excuses don't change outcome, Elle. You need to accept responsibility for what's happened. Can you do that? Can you regain my trust," he asks and she bites back the question that dances on the tip of her tongue, begging to be asked.

Shouldn't she be asking him this question?

Instead she turns her lips downward and masks her hate as much as she can as she glares at him, knowing, already, that he never trusted her in the first place and nods her head quickly.

"Sure Daddy. I'll watch the cheerleader," she answers, her venom contained as the self doubt begins to eat at her. Even though she knows that he doesn't trust her, he's all she remembers having so she'll do this one thing, try to fit back into a role that isn't quite right anymore, because without her father, she's really nothing at all.


End file.
